HER LATENESS ANNOYED HIM, as if it was her way of saying that, unlike him, her sybaritic companion, she was here for a practical purpose. Though the hotel’s rates, which he now inquired about at the desk, were not high, he was sure she would find some way of putting them on her expense account. Not that he could do anything about it, but he had gone over enough bills at the office handed in by junketing officials to know all the tricks. In any case, he would not wait to lunch with her, as he would no doubt have to treat her to dinner and might as well have his main meal now alone; that way, they could order less later, and anyway, she was no doubt being fed at the conference. He drank coffee and ate an order of french fries with two frankfurters while jotting down some things to talk to her about in the days ahead, for he felt rather intimidated by her intelligence. Then he strolled down a long, narrow street, making sure not to lose his way while peering into clothing stores and groceries.
It was three-thirty when he returned to the hotel. This time the receptionist was a man his own age who told him in excellent English that madame had called fifteen minutes ago and was on her way to the hotel. He decided to wait for her in the lobby, by a column next to the elevator that was festooned with old maps and swords, from where he saw her rush in anxiously, followed by a cab driver carrying two suitcases. His first reaction—for he had expected her to be dressed differently—was surprise at seeing her in her familiar clothes, over which she wore her short leopard-skin coat. The receptionist, to whom she spoke in fluent German, seemed to know her well; perhaps she brings all her lovers here, thought Molkho, deciding she was definitely a complicated woman whom three years of widowhood had not simplified. With whom, he wondered, had she left her daughter? Though the receptionist was pointing in Molkho’s direction, the legal adviser was still too busy filling out forms to look up; finally, just as someone in an apron appeared from a side door, bowed, and took her luggage, she finished the last of them and glanced around. For a moment he thought of getting even by hiding behind the column; but she knew he was there, and so, with a dancerlike grace, he stepped forward, putting on his best, warmest smile and gently embracing her in the gloomy light of the short winter afternoon. The soft fur of her coat made him think of a cold dog.
She was heavily made up and had on a new perfume. “I just couldn’t get away from the conference,” she apologized. “I was elected to chair a committee and had no choice.” For the last two hours she had been on pins and needles; twice she had called the hotel to leave a message. Yes, he had received it, Molkho reassured her, but anyhow, it didn’t matter; the main thing now was for her to rest and be ready for the evening. “Rest?” she protested. Her luggage was already in her room, and she was all set to go out; perhaps she would come back to change before the opera, but she would take the tickets with her just in case. “You mean you’ll go as you are?” he asked in astonishment. “Of course,” she replied, “why not?” The opera in Berlin wasn’t formal. People came for the music, not to show off; he would see as much for himself.
There was an easy matter-of-factness about her. One could certainly learn to like her, thought Molkho, one could even learn to live with her wrinkles. “Who is your daughter staying with?” he asked. But the girl, it seemed, was independent and had preferred to stay by herself. “She even does her own cooking,” said her mother, “and it’s not the first time I’ve left her alone like this either, although she does have an uncle two blocks away.” Even if she did, replied Molkho, he was impressed by such maturity.
Once they were out in the street, she began telling him about Berlin, in which she had been before. Tomorrow, of course, they would tour the city; she already had it all planned. She was looking forward to it herself, having been cooped up at the conference for three whole days, and indeed, Molkho saw, she was window-shopping avidly, stopping every few steps to look at some new display. Once again, he felt a pang: his wife’s last dresses had been made at home by a seamstress and he hadn’t looked with a woman at a shop window for over a year. And this particular woman, with her waistline that was too low and her body that seemed rather hastily thrown together, was not even as attractive as his wife. Still, did she not have her redeeming features—a certain intellectual animation, indeed an almost feverish intensity? And she was certainly high up on the bureaucratic ladder, he thought, listening to her tell him about the conference. Was her car paid for by the office or was she not as senior as all that? He made a mental note to ask her, inquiring in the meantime about the Berlin Wall. “Would you like to see it?” she asked, stopping to look at him. “Come, I’ll show it to you now.” And turning to the right, she led him into a broad, empty thoroughfare.
A frigid wind lashed at them, laced with driving rain. “It’s damn cold,” said Molkho. “We’re almost there,” she assured him, though the wall was nowhere in sight. On the contrary, though they had entered a rather desolate area, in front of them, like a purplish gash on the horizon, were nothing but factory chimneys. And yet when he suggested asking directions, she told him she knew the way. “It can’t be far,” she said, “the wall rims everywhere,” and they plodded on block after block, the rain whipping them crosswise, Molkho, loath to be thought finicky about getting wet, saying nothing more. At last, however, she stopped to ask two passersby, who pointed in the opposite direction, and after challenging them briefly, she confessed, “I’m afraid I lost my way.” Suddenly he pitied her. After all, she had meant well, had wanted to make him a gift of the wall. And so, gripping her lightly by the elbow, he said, “Never mind,” and put his arm around her, the sidewalk being quite slippery. At once, as if she had been waiting for that, she leaned her weight against him. What an old squirrel she is, he thought, amused by his own image, for he had hardly seen a squirrel in his life. Thus, he told himself, steering her by the shoulder, the grand betrayal begins.
And perhaps his wife wasn’t born here after all, but rather in East Berlin, though of course it was a single city then. The rain was falling harder now, sleety and sharp, and they took shelter from it in a clothing store, where he could finally release the legal adviser from his grip. It was a large, nearly empty establishment, on whose listless young salesgirls their entrance made no visible impression. Aimlessly they walked past rows of pants and jackets and shelves of sweaters and knitwear, all equally sexless, until they reached a large straw basket full of hats and began to rummage through it. He watched her try on hat after hat, each pert toss of her head in the mirror a drop of refreshment on his parched heart. One, a red woolen one, was particularly becoming. “Why not buy it?” he urged, helping her translate the price from marks into shekels while thinking so hard of his wife and her lost breasts that the tears came to his eyes, for here, snugly out of the rain with him before stepping out to the opera, another woman was by his side. Though he would gladly have bought her the hat himself, especially as it was cheap, he feared this being taken for a promise he would not be able to keep. We’ll see, he thought; if all goes well, I’ll buy her something tomorrow—and anyhow, I’m treating for dinner. Meanwhile, having moved on from the hat basket, she was now browsing in the pants department. Something was pressing on Molkho’s bladder. “Just a minute, I’ll be right back,” he said, remembering how he had gone to the bathroom that night in her house. Now she was sure to think he had some disease! Well, let her, he thought; it will cool her off a bit. But if he ever really were sick, who would take care of him?